‘You do as I tell you, Jake,’ interrupted Mallen. ‘You owe me, remember. You owe me big time.’
Gregory’s cheeks reddened as if he’d been slapped. ‘I’m just pointing out the jurisdictional—-’
Mallen held up a hand to silence him. ‘Fuck jurisdiction. We didn’t worry about jurisdiction when we wanted Noriega. We just sent twenty-four thousand troops into Panama and brought him out. And Grenada wasn’t actually our turf, was it? This monster’s poisoning our streets, he’s crippling our economy, he’s killing our children, for God’s sake. He’s a cancer, and I want you to operate, Jake. I’ve made the diagnosis, now I want you to be the surgeon.’
‘But you can’t . . .’
Mallen snorted angrily. ‘I’m the Vice President of the United States. I can do pretty much anything I want. Within reason.’
Gregory wiped his hands again. ‘But that’s the point, isn’t it? What constitutes reasonable?’
‘I’m not asking for a discussion about morality, Jake. I don’t give a shit about the rights and wrongs of this, I just want the fucker dead. Do I have to spell it out for you? D-E-A-D. Don’t make me call in my markers, we go back too far for that.’
Gregory held up his hands in surrender. ‘I’m not arguing, I’m not saying no. I’m just pointing out the downside, that’s all.’
Mallen sighed impatiently. ‘There is no downside. You’ll be doing the world a favour.’
The two men rode in silence for a while. A small vein pulsed in Gregory’s temple. He massaged the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
Mallen’s voice became softer and he patted Gregory gently on the knee. ‘Look, Jake, I didn’t mean to snap at you. You know how rough it’s been, the last few days. Keeping the real cause of his death under wraps, dealing with the media. With Angela. Look, don’t think of this as taking out the man, think of it as hitting his operation, his headquarters. And if he happens to get caught in the crossfire, well, that’ll just be a bonus.’
Gregory’s eyes remained closed. He could feel the Vice President’s will enveloping him like a cloud, seeping through his pores, into his very soul. It was persistent. Insidious. Gregory could feel sweat beading on his forehead. The hand tightened on his knee.
‘I have the President’s approval on this, Jake,’ Mallen continued. ‘Nothing in writing, no medals for those involved, but he’s given me a green light. Whatever resources you need, whatever you feel is necessary. He wants this as much as I do. He wants to show the world that we’re doing something. A retaliatory strike. A lesson for the others.’
Gregory nodded. He opened his eyes. All resistance had gone. There was no point in protesting any more. ‘Financing?’ he asked.
‘Lose it in your budget. It’s big enough.’
‘And I have carte blanche?’
‘You and Frank Sinatra, Jake. Do it your way. Just get it done.’ The Vice President took his hand off Gregory’s knee. ‘I won’t forget this, Jake.’ He smiled at the DEA executive, a gleaming white smile that had no warmth in it. His eyes sparkled like ice freezing on the surface of a lake.
THE ONE THOUGHT THAT Billy Winter clung to as he rattled around in the boot of the big car was that they’d been wearing ski masks. If they’d felt it necessary to conceal their identities then they probably didn’t mean to kill him. Probably. Winter wasn’t sure just how much store he could put by his theory, but he clung to it nevertheless. Just then it was all he had.
He’d been sitting in his white bathrobe, drawing on a big cigar and watching two highly paid hookers do their stuff, when they’d come for him. Three men – not particularly big, but then size wasn’t important when sawn-off shotguns and semi-automatic pistols were involved – wearing leather bomber jackets, blue jeans and training shoes. And black ski masks. They hadn’t said anything, the men. They hadn’t needed to.
The two hookers, one blonde, one brunette, hadn’t been to Ireland before – Winter had flown them in from London on the recommendation of an old pal – but they knew what men in ski masks meant and they hadn’t said a word as Winter had been hustled out of the house. The girls were probably already at the airport. Money for old rope. They’d barely started on their lesbian show – guaranteed to get an erection from the dead, Winter’s pal had promised – before the men had burst in.
Winter had asked the men if they’d give him time to get dressed, and one of them had pistol-whipped him, hard enough to stun but not hard enough to knock him out. Winter could feel blood trickling down his cheek as he lay in the car boot, his knees up tight against his chin, his hands tied behind his back. If they were going to kill him, he thought, they’d have done it back at the house. His nearest neighbour lived half a mile away and it was farming country; no one would think twice about a shotgun blast, even late at night.
The car bucked and lurched and Winter’s head banged against the floor. They’d been driving for thirty minutes or so but Winter was finding it difficult to keep track of time. Besides, it made no difference where they were taking him, the only thing that mattered was what they planned to do with him.
The car braked and they came to a sudden halt. Winter heard the car doors open and close and then the boot was thrown open and hands dragged him roughly out. A bag was pulled down over his head and he was frogmarched away from the car. He stumbled and his bare feet scraped across rough concrete. They still hadn’t said a word, but the bag reassured him; it was another sign that they didn’t want to be recognised, which suggested that they were probably going to let him live. Probably.
The bathrobe flapped open but despite the cold night air Winter was sweating. He splashed through a puddle then he heard a metal door rattle. As he stumbled over a step the hands holding his arms gripped even tighter. They forced him to his knees and he felt the barrel of a gun press against the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and fought to stop himself shaking. It wasn’t the first time that Billy Winter had been at the wrong end of a loaded gun, but that didn’t make the experience any easier to handle.
‘Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll treble it,’ he said. There was no reply and Winter wondered if they’d heard him through the bag. ‘Whatever they’re paying . . .’ he began but the gun barrel clipped the side of his head and he realised it was pointless to continue. He heard muffled voices, and footsteps, and then the metal door clanged shut. The gun barrel was taken away and the hood was pulled off his head. A single light shone into his eyes and he squinted. There was a strong acrid smell that he realised was pig manure, and something sweeter. Straw, maybe. He was in a barn, or a shed, somewhere pigs were kept.
Tears pricked his eyes and he blinked them away. He didn’t want his captors to think that he was crying; it was the bright light that was making his eyes water. It had been a long, long time since Billy Winter had cried.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’
He could just about make out a figure holding the torch. Blue jeans and white trainers, now flecked with mud. A second figure walked from behind Winter and stood next to the man with the torch. He was holding a sawn-off shotgun, a gloved finger hooked around the trigger. It was a pump-action Remington, Winter realised, five shells. Winter stared at the finger on the trigger.
‘If it’s money, I can give you all the money you want,’ said Winter quietly.
The finger tightened.
‘What is it, then? Political? Is this political? I’ve got friends . . .’
Winter flinched as the finger pulled back the trigger. He screamed with rage and turned his head away. There was no explosion, no hail of shot, just a hammer clicking down on an empty chamber. Winter’s bowels turned liquid and he felt urine stream down his leg. He began to gag and he retched but nothing came up, just a bitter taste at the back of his mouth. ‘You bastards,’ he mumbled.
Gloved hands grabbed his hair and forced him to look straight ahead, into the torch beam. A third figure appeared, a man wearing a long coat. Winter squinted up at the new arrival.
He wasn’t wearing a ski mask and Winter recognised him.
‘Thomas?’ he said.
‘Hello, Billy,’ said Thomas McCormack. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his coat and he wore a red woollen scarf wrapped tightly around his neck as if he feared catching a chill.
‘What’s this about, Thomas?’
‘Ray Harrigan,’ said McCormack.
‘Harrigan? What about him?’
‘We want him back.’
Winter cleared his throat and swallowed. ‘So why didn’t you use the blower? Why the heavies?’
McCormack peered over the top of his spectacles. ‘I wanted you to know how serious this was, Billy. I wanted you to be in no doubt what will happen if you don’t bring the Harrigan boy home.’
‘I thought we were friends, Thomas. I thought we had an understanding.’
McCormack shrugged. ‘An understanding, perhaps, but not a friendship, Billy.’
‘It’s not my fault Harrigan got caught.’
‘So whose fault would it be? They were your contacts, you put the meeting together.’
‘Maybe someone talked.’
‘Not Ray Harrigan,’ insisted McCormack. ‘The boy went through the trial without saying a word. If anyone talked it was one of your people. That makes it your responsibility.’
Winter nodded slowly. ‘Okay. I’ll do what I can, Thomas.’
McCormack shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough, Billy. You bring him back, or next time the shotgun won’t be empty.’
As if to emphasise McCormack’s words, the man with the shotgun waved it menacingly in front of Winter’s face. McCormack turned and walked away. The bag was pulled down over Winter’s head and he was dragged to his feet.
Winter felt his confidence return. ‘Any chance of me riding in the front this time, lads?’ he said, and he laughed dryly. He was still chuckling when something hard slammed against his left temple and everything went red, then black.
THE CANADIAN HELD THE metal spoon over the candle flame and watched the colourless liquid sizzle on the hot metal. He coughed, a dry hacking sound that echoed around the cell. Ray Harrigan watched as the Canadian put the spoon on to the concrete floor and wiped the syringe needle on his sleeve. He dipped the end of the needle into the liquid and drew it up into the barrel of the syringe, holding his breath as it filled. He looked up and saw Harrigan watching him.
‘You want some?’ the Canadian asked.
Harrigan shook his head.
‘Fifty baht and you can have a hit.’ The Canadian used a shoelace as a tourniquet around his upper arm to raise a vein.
‘No,’ said Harrigan.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, carefully inserting the needle into the vein. He withdrew blood into the syringe and allowed it to mix with the heroin. Harrigan watched, fascinated, as the Canadian injected the blood and heroin mixture back into the vein, then loosened the tourniquet and slumped back against the wall, a look of rapture on his face. ‘You’ve never taken drugs?’ he asked Harrigan.
‘No. I can’t stand needles.’
The Canadian smiled lazily. A dribble of blood ran down his arm like a tear. ‘It’s the only way out of this place,’ he said, and tapped the side of his forehead. ‘They can’t imprison your mind, man. They can fuck with your body, but they can’t keep my mind in here.’
Harrigan looked at the syringe lying on the floor. ‘Do you share your needle?’ he asked.
The Canadian’s eyes went wide. ‘Fuck, no. No one even touches my works. Do you think I’m stupid?’
A large cockroach scuttled past Harrigan’s feet. He pulled them back involuntarily. He’d never get used to the size of the insects, or the speed with which they moved. They didn’t bite or sting but he couldn’t bear being near them. Harrigan closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. It was greasy and he could feel that his scalp was covered in small scabs. His mattress was infected with fleas and mites and his whole body itched.
Harrigan fought to contain the panic that kept threatening to overwhelm him. Fifty years. Fifty godforsaken years. He could barely imagine that length of time. Fifty years ago there’d been no colour televisions, no portable telephones, no digital watches. Fifty years ago his parents were still at school. The war was only just over. The Second World War, for God’s sake. The panic grew like a living thing, making his heart beat faster and his breathing come in rapid gasps. He took deep breaths of the rancid air, forcing himself to stay calm. It was going to be all right, he kept repeating to himself. They’d get him out. They wouldn’t leave him to rot. He’d done as they’d asked, he’d kept his mouth shut, he’d followed orders. He’d done everything the Organisation had asked. So why was it taking them so long?
‘Hey, chill, man,’ said the Canadian. ‘You’re breathing like a train.’
Harrigan opened his eyes. ‘I’m okay,’ he said.
‘You’re burning up,’ said the Canadian.
‘Of course I’m burning up. It’s almost ninety in here.’
The Canadian started to giggle. He stretched out on his bed and rolled over, resting his head in the crook of his right arm, the one he hadn’t injected into. His eyes seemed to stare right through Harrigan, as if he wasn’t there. Harrigan envied the Canadian the fact that he could look forward to being released at some point. He was hoping to be repatriated to Canada to serve the remainder of his sentence, but even if that fell through he’d still be out in six years. He had something to aim for; he knew he had a life ahead of him, a life outside. But fifty years wasn’t a life sentence, it was a death sentence. Unless the Organisation got him out, he’d die within the walls of the prison. He banged the back of his head against the tiled wall. They had to get him out. He wouldn’t grow old and die in prison, he’d rather kill himself first. He banged his head again, harder this time. There was something cleansing about the pain, it helped him focus his thoughts, his anger. He did it again, so hard that the dull thud echoed around the cell. Harrigan began to cry. He bit down on his lower lip so that he didn’t sob out loud, but his body trembled and shook.
THE PORTABLE TELEPHONE BLEEPED and the Chinese teenager unclipped it from his belt and spoke into it. Down on the pitch the South Africans were warming up.
‘What a wanker,’ said Tim Metcalfe, pouring himself a tumbler of lager from a green and white Carlsberg jug. ‘Fancy bringing his phone to the rugby sevens. No class, no class at all.’
Warren Hastings grinned at Metcalfe. With his ripped and stained fake Lacoste polo shirt and baggy shorts, Metcalfe was hardly the epitome of good taste himself.
‘What? What are you grinning at?’ Metcalfe asked, wiping foam from his upper lip with the back of his arm.
‘Nothing, Tim.’
‘Well, come on, you’ve got to agree with me, right? We’re here to watch the rugby, not to talk on the phone. Well, am I right or am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Hastings. It paid not to argue with Metcalfe, who had the tenaciousness of a bulldog and would continue pressing his point home until he’d beaten down all opposition. It was a skill honed from years of selling life insurance.
Chris Davies, a burly bearded photographer, put a large hand into a McDonald’s bag and pulled out a cheeseburger.
Metcalfe reached over and plucked the burger from Davies’ hands. ‘Thanks, Digger,’ he said.
‘You’ve the manners of a pig, Tim,’ said Davies.
‘That’s an insult to pigs everywhere,’ said Hastings, pouring the last of the lager into his tumbler. He tossed the empty jug into Metcalfe’s lap. Metcalfe didn’t notice – his eyes were fixed on the far side of the pitch. Hastings turned to see what he was staring at. A female streaker had climbed on to the field and was running across the grass, chased by Gurkha security guards dressed in red tracksuits. The girl was in her twenties with long blonde hair and large pendulous breasts that swung to and fro as she ran.
‘Bloody hell,’ wailed Metcalfe. ‘Would you look at them buggers move.’
Hastings wasn’t sure whether his friend was referring to the girl’s breasts or the diminutive Gurkhas in pursuit. The stadium was filled with roars and catcalls and someone let off an airhorn high up in the stands. The referee blew his whistle and the players stopped to watch the girl run to the centre of the pitch, her hands raised above her head, waving to the crowd. The spectators in front of Hastings got to their feet to get a better look.
‘Come on, get her off the pitch!’ shouted Davies. ‘Get on with the game!’
‘Hey, give the girl a chance,’ said Metcalfe. He had a pair of binoculars around his neck and he raised them to his eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ he repeated.
Hastings arched his back and rotated his neck. He’d been sitting for more than two hours, and although he was enjoying the rugby, the stadium seats were far from comfortable. He took off his steel-framed spectacles and polished them with the bottom of his shirt.
One of the Gurkhas lunged at the girl but she swerved and the man fell at her feet. The crowd roared with delight and the girl stopped and took a bow.
‘Shit, we could use her on our team,’ said Davies in admiration.
Hastings put his glasses back on. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as if someone had touched his spine with a piece of ice. He had a feeling of dread, as if something terrible was about to happen, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what it was. The streaker had started running again, but the Gurkhas had surrounded her and Hastings could see that it would only be a matter of time before they brought her down. He massaged the back of his neck, wondering if the feeling of unease was nothing more than the onset of flu. Around him spectators were cheering the girl and whistling at the security guards. Hastings shivered. He looked over to his left. All eyes were on the streaker, with one exception.
A grey-haired man in his late fifties was looking away from the pitch, towards where Hastings was sitting. He was about two hundred feet away, in the top tier of the stadium, five rows from the front, high up beyond the corporate boxes. He was wearing an off-white jacket and a dark shirt and smoking a large cigar. Hastings frowned. The man was too far away for Hastings to make out his features, but he was sure that the man was staring right at him, staring at him and grinning. It was an eerie sensation, as if something physical linked the two men, something that cut through the crowds and set them apart from everybody else.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 4